Horizon
by Evelyn Hawkins
Summary: When she finds her missing brother is murdered, Lila discovers an ability in herself she never thought possible-teleporting. The world of Jumpers is a dangerous one, and in order to survive, Lila must find herself before finding her brother's muderer.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue—Caught

The rail in the subway is cold, chilling his bones as he grips it. His brown eyes dash from his reflection in the subway's window, watching the tunnel go by as he stays still, to the back of the subway where the two men stood, eyeing him suspiciously.

In any other case, he might have gone up to them casually, taunting them before he left them speechless and angry, but today is different. He stays, his feet shuffling every few seconds restlessly. He swallows as sweat collects on his forehead and runs smoothly down his throat. His breathing picks up as he hears them speaking to one another, no doubt about him.

He can feel the blood oozing easily with a pulse from the wound above his right hipbone though he clutches his coat and jacket to it hard. The air is humid, thick with invisible water that clings to his skin even underground. New York in May is hell, but the weather is the least of his worries.

Now they've found him again.

Just a second. One single millisecond was all it would take for him to be somewhere obscure, random and safe. But now everything means more. He has more to think about.

When the subway lurches to a sudden halt in the center of the tunnel, he closes his eyes sadly, exhaling as he presses his face against the cold rail. The men stand immediately, expecting the stop and pull their long, baton-like weapons where a faint buzz could be heard.

"No more running, Mark," the taller man says, his baton at the ready.

He smiles darkly, laughing under his breath like a crazy man. He opens his watering eyes and looks at them, eyes black from pain and insanity. "Who said I was running?" he laughs darkly.

The shorter man thrusts his baton into his stomach, sending and awful electric charge through his system. He seizes and falls to the ground.

The taller man kneels to touch his neck. He rises and put his baton back into its holster within his coat. "He's dead."

"His body was already weak," the shorter man says harshly. "I don't think he could've jumped if he wanted to."

The taller man nods sagely. "Why didn't he though?" he thought out loud.

"Does it matter, Carter?" the shorter man said as he pulled out a small silver cell phone. "Jumpers are fools by nature. This one's been terrorizing Hong Kong for the past three years."

Carter glares at him. "He's been in Egypt for the past year, Tanner," he corrects angrily. "Helping evacuate civilians from the fighting."

Tanner shrugs and presses the phone to his ear. "We've got a body," he says sharply. "We'll meet at—" Tanner frowns as he pauses. "That's not protocol—" Tanner's frown deepens. "Alright. Get the train started."  
>Tanner hangs up and goes to the emergency exit. "Leave the body," he says as he opens the door to go to the dark subway tunnels. "Let the civilians find it."<p>

Carter's frown deepens as Tanner leaves with a flashlight, coughing casually. Carter kneels next to the body of the young man. He closes his eyes postmortem and shakes his head. "Boy, you were played a wrong deal," he says sadly. Then he sees a wallet, bloodied from the knife wound the jumper took in outside his home in the Village where other paladins got to him.

Carter pulls the wallet free of the bloody pocket and opens it. Inside is sixteen hundred dollars in cash, a mix of American bills, South African notes and Chinese currency, a platinum credit card, a piece of paper with the word CARILLO on it, and a small, wallet-sized school picture of a young pretty girl around the age of five with curling raven hair and richly colored dark blue eyes. She smiles with two front teeth missing and her lovely eyes sparkling. Carter looks at the back and sees the date is from thirteen years ago.

The girl smiles up at Carter with the same hair color as the dead jumper before him. Carter tucks the photo in his pocket and leaves the subway, where the next commuters will have a grim discovery.

Chapter 1—Perfection

My breath is caught when I see him—the new student, Grigori something. I can't pronounce his name, it's too Russian. He has dark brown hair, big lips and flat brown eyes. His English isn't bad, but it isn't good and he moved from Moscow so he can have a better education.

I blush when Ms. Randall points to me in the second row. "That's Lila—Lila! Raise your hand. See she sits right there."  
>"Thank you." Grigori's accent is thick and all of his words are heavy and originate in the back of his throat.<p>

"Hello," he says thickly.

"Hi." I swallow and tuck a strand of my black hair behind my ear. I gesture for him to sit. "You switched into this class?"

He shrugs indifferently. "I was tired of Advanced Biology and since I already took it I could go to this little Marine Science class."

I blink at the mildly delivered back-handed insult. "Okay. So you had Sanders. I heard he was easy."

Grigori's face becomes uncertain. "He's easy?"

"Oh." I laugh. "Not that kind of easy—just… it's difficult to fail his class."

"Oh."

I press my lips together and smile despite my discomfort. "So you're from Russia," I say casually. He nods. "I've always wanted to go. I mean, Europe in general, even though my parents can't afford it. London sounds incredible, and I wish I could go for the Olympics this summer, but you know, prices. Paris sounds better too, though, with the museums and all, but Russia…"

I look up when I realize I've been rambling. It's clear that Grigori understood it all and still he looks ready to laugh at me. I look abashed. "Sorry," I say. "I ramble."

"Americans say a lot of things," he says heavily. "But mostly it is stupid things. What you say is not stupid."  
>I frown. "So Americans are stupid and I am not?"<p>

"Yes." He does not seem to feel bad about that. I'm not sure how I think of him. "So," he changes the subject, leaning casually against the chair. "I am having a party tonight for all the new people I am meeting. There will be a lot of liquor, mostly vodka, but we will have hookah as well. You should come."  
>There was no question involved and I realize he had only been pretending to be bad at English—a ploy to size the "stupid Americans" up. I press my lips together. "I dunno. What do your parents think of it?"<p>

"They paid for the liquor."

I blink and laugh, unsure about how to answer. "Well, I—"

"Lila."

I look up at the sound of my name and see Ms. Randall holding her manicured hand to the receiving end of the phone. Her wrinkled eyes are grave. "Come here, please."  
>I stand and walk hesitantly over to the teacher. Once given the phone, I frown deeply and look absently at the white board.<br>"Hello?"  
>"Lila Cross?"<p>

"Yes?"  
>"This is Mr. Martinez. Would you please come to the counseling office please?"<p>

I blink. Mr. Martinez is the school's, hard, unfailing principal. I've never had so much as a tardy; why would he need to see _me_ in the counseling office?

"Sure, Mr. Martinez," I say uncertainly. "I'll be there soon."

"Bring your stuff, too."

I swallow and hang up without a goodbye. I collect my things by a confused and prying Grigori.

"So will you come?"

I press my lips together. "I dunno. Maybe."

Grigori presses a small piece of paper with blue ink scribbled with lovely calligraphy on it into my hand. "When you come, find me."

_I didn't realize I accepted_. "Okay."

After a long, confused walk to the office, I sit in front of Mr. Martinez and Ms. Lestor, my counselor. Their eyes are sympathetic, full of pity.

"What's wrong?" I ask holding onto my Government book like a security blanket.

Ms. Lestor sighs. "Lila, I am sorry to tell you this," she said softly. "But your brother has passed away."

I feel my stomach rock with confusion, hot lava, and pain. I frown and hold a hand to my stomach. "Wait—what do you mean he passed away?"

Mr. Martinez steps in more easily than the young, fresh-out-of-college counselor.

"Your brother Mark," the principal says. "They found his body in a subway in New York two days ago. They ran his DNA through the system and were directed to the missing persons file on him back here."

I feel slightly better that I was told upfront by the principal, rather than beating around the bush as Ms. Lestor did. "He…He's been missing for almost thirteen years, how can he…" I swallow deeply, anger coursing through me and hot tears overflowing from my eyelids. "How did he die?" I demand darkly.

Mr. Martinez speaks up before Ms. Lestor can say something evasive. "From what they can tell, he was murdered."

I shake my head. My brother has sent me letters since he disappeared though I never told my parents. He never gave a return address with the pseudonym of John Michaels, pen pal. He sent cash sometimes specifically for me to frivolously spend and always asked about what was going on with me. Still, I haven't seen him in almost fifteen years since he disappeared off the face of the earth. He never told me why he left, nor did my parents have any idea where he could have gone or why, but he never came back to Hermosa Beach regardless.

I briefly wonder why my parents didn't tell me this, calling me from school to do so themselves, but then I realize that I shouldn't be surprised. I flinch away from the counselor's touch and clench my jaw, wishing to be anywhere but here.

—The sting of the slap lingers around my cheek and my mother's ring bit into my cheekbone sharply, causing a small amount of blood to blossom from the flesh.

"It's _your_ fault!" my mother screams at me, tears streaming down her cheeks. "If you hadn't been so horrible to Mark he never would have left us!"

I wish my father was home to soothe my mother, but he is at the police station, getting more information about what Mark's been doing the past thirteen years. Whenever my father is gone, I have to fend for myself against mother who just hasn't been the same since Mark left.

"Mark was _perfect!_" mother cries. "Good grades—handsome—kind—generous! And he leaves us with _you! _A crazy little bitch with no promise!"

Mom slaps me again so I fall over onto the carpet. I touch the mark on my cheek and blood comes out onto my fingertips.

"Mom," I say softly. "Mom, please—"

"Keep your mouth shut, you—"

"MARTHA!"

Mom's hand stops in the air, frozen without striking me for the third time. Dad grabs his wife's arm and thrusts it away. She breaks out into sobs, saying Mark's name and a stream of curses and sadness.

"Lila," dad begins, but I stand and yank my purse from the rack. I ignore the yells from dad desperately to come back and shove my keys into the ignition of my Volvo.

It doesn't take me long to reach Grigori's house. It's huge and people are going in and out, either drunk or drinking or eager to drink. I run a hand through my black hair and look at myself in the mirror. I let the cut from mom's strike bleed on the drive while I suppressed tears, so blood trickles mildly down my cheekbone. I wipe it clean with a napkin from Starbucks and put on mascara sharply, careful not to smudge.

I become glad that I live in southern California suddenly, where the nights are as warm as the days are tepid and sunny. This particular May night is not too dry, not too humid, and warm enough to wear a tank top without a coat. One month away from graduating, all the seniors are eager to let loose before needed to act adult.

I recognize quite a few people, but no one I particularly like. While shoving between two girls sucking face blatantly in the hallway, I go to the bar where Warren Sumpter is tending.

"Hey, Lila," he says mildly with his large muscles moving as he cleans a beer mug. "Didn't think you come to these sort of things."

"I do tonight. Get me something."

"What do you want?"

"Anything."

Warren shrugs, laughs and takes two shot glasses from underneath the bar. Across his neck is a chain of jingling car keys he's taken from all who order from him. Everyone seems to already have red cups of beer and others are playing beer pong and pyramid with vodka.

"What's this called?" I ask as Warren pours amber colored liquid into the shot glasses. Warren laughs.

"Tequila."

"Oh. Right."

Warren laughs again, and gestures toward the shot. "I didn't know you were friends with Greg."

I blink. "Who? Oh. Right. Well, we just sort of met and he invited me tonight. Are you taking this with me?"

Warren laughs. Apparently, I'm hilarious.

Warren raises the shot to me and I bring it to his with a soft clink. "What are we drinking to?" he asks me.

"Mortality."  
>I swing my head back as I let the alcohol constrict down my throat. Hot and heavy and foreign to me. I inhale through my teeth and shake my head, ignoring that fact my hair is falling in front of my face.<p>

"Mortality, huh?" Warren says while he pours beer from the tap for an eager football player I don't bother to look at twice. "Why so serious?"

I tap on the top of the shot again. "Don't worry about it."

Warren raises his brown brow with slight worry as he pours me more tequila. "What's wrong?"

"Why do you think I'm here, Warren?" I rebuke. Warren blinks rapidly and opens his mouth to reply. "Because I want to forget what's wrong, that's why Warren."

I lift my shot and clink it to his empty glass before swinging my head back to finish the shot.

"Layla!"

I ignore the call with the wrong name and a warm, rough hand wraps around my bare shoulder. The smell of booze I don't know the name of blows into my face and I look up to see Grigori—or Greg.

"It's Lila," I correct as I tap on the shot again for Warren to fill it.

"I'm glad that you came," he said with his thick Russian accent. He pulls me into his muscular body. "Come—I will give you the tour."

I take the shot quickly and wave to Warren, but the bartender grabs my wrist.

"Lila, I need your keys," he says but his voice has a deeper meaning. My mind is already foggy from the alcohol and I pull the keys from my pocket.

"Here." I drop the keys into his hand and he grips them. "Hey." I stop again. "Isn't it your birthday today, Lila?"

I blink. I forgot about that. How did Warren remember? Then I remember that he's known me since we were five. I swallow and nod once. "Yes, Warren. I'm a big girl now. Eighteen. I'll see you later." I leave him eyeing me with worry as I leave with Greg.

Greg talks thickly and quickly with slurred half-Russian words as we ascend the staircase. Once we reach the top, he shoves me into the room immediately to the right. I hold my hand up, but he is over six foot tall with a large, muscular build. He lifts me from the ground and his tongue covered with booze slides hard and determined into my mouth.

I try to push him away, but he won't budge. I kiss him back—at least here I'm not as unexperienced as I am with booze—but yank away when he puts me on the bed I didn't have a chance to look at.

"Greg," I say as he pins me to the bed. When he pushes my shirt up, I say "Greg!"

He mumbles something in Russian and kisses my stomach as he yanks my jeans off. I try to push him away but then he becomes stronger. I think to scream, but nothing comes out especially with the music as he pulls down his own pants and pulls down my underwear.

I sit up suddenly and push his face hard away. "Greg—_no!_"

"Shut up," he says, then something in Russian.

I open my mouth to scream as I feel his skin touch mine but instead the world swirls with sharp extremity.

I am now on the floor of the Natural History Museum in Downtown LA. It's closed and I am in front of the hall of African animals. The stuffed lioness stares at me with the proud lion behind her, watching my half-nakedness.

I immediately pull on my underwear and pants that are hanging at my ankles. My heart is beating too fast and I can still feel the chilling warmth of Greg's skin on mine and the bass of the house's music still rung in my ears. I could still hear him speaking roughly in Russian.

But I am no longer there. I am nearly twenty miles away from that party in a dark, taxidermy filled hall. No Russians in sight.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2—Seasonal

The sky is brightened by the rising sun, burning my eyelids and forcing them open. I smack my lips together, hating the disgusting taste of booze on my tongue and the sharp pain around my pelvis and temples.

I sit up, soft, cold sand cascading down my arms, hair and shirt where I slept. I narrow my eyes at the sun as it lifts over the horizon, familiar and distant all at once.

"Hey, are you okay?"

I don't look over my shoulder. I know it's the girl who does yoga on the shoreline every morning. When I run down the strand I see her, the lady with three dogs that all look like her, and the rich man that dresses like a homeless man for kicks.

"I'm fine," I lie as I stand. I stretch back, cracking my spine like a row of snapping fingers.

"That doesn't sound good," she says behind me, no doubt critiquing my technique.

"Nope," I agree. I crack my sore neck and shake some sand from my hair.

"Do you need a ride home or something?" she asks me. "I've seen you taking out the trash by PCH."

"No thank you," I say. Yesterday was my disappearance from underneath Greg. With my account number I memorized a long time ago, I pulled a hundred from my savings at a machine by a Ralphs in a questionable part of LA. The homeless kept to themselves there, scorned by the rudeness of Americans who don't have time to be humanitarians. I bought a hoodie at a CVS along with Mace and gave a twenty from my change to one of those quiet, sad homeless men. He thanked me as I walked away hurriedly toward the mildly busy grocery store, the hood over my head and my hair tucked away so I wouldn't be harassed as much.

The taxi driver was kind enough, but the last thing I wanted to do was answer questions. Apparently he got that a lot because he kept quiet when I responded sharply until we reached Hermosa. I suppose he assumed that I lived at one of the many large, beautiful houses on the strand because he seemed to settle once he looked at them. I paid him with a generous tip and began walking out to the sand without any intention of returning home.

"Are you sure?" the yoga-girl asks me as she looks at my sandy, wrinkled and slightly damp clothing. "Trouble at home?"

I chuckle darkly and give her a lethal look. "Nothing Downward Facing Dog can't fix."

She frowns. I was mocking her. "I'm just trying to help," she says calmly. "Look, Mickey's just opened. I can get you breakfast and we can talk."

I swallow, considering what might have caused her to go to yoga in the first place. She seems to be talking from experience. But I shake my head. "No, thank you," I say. I pick the hoodie from CVS off the sand and nod to her. "Namaste."

I walk away with a sad expression on her calm face. I hold the hoodie in my hand with an unnecessarily hard grip as I walk down the length of the Strand. The morning light is lovely for even a May day and the horizon is easy to define; on normal days, the smog of LA makes the horizon blurry, difficult to make out, difficult to see the full extent of what's ahead. But not today.

I rap my knuckles against the soft wood of the door, opting not to use the loud brass knocker on the door. Three minutes later, Warren answers, eyes groggy against the light unwillingly and brown hair messed in several directions. He blinks when he sees me and rubs the sleepiness from his eyes.

"Lila?"

I hold out my hand. "I would like my keys," I say rather sharply.

Warren blinks and gestures me inside. "Come in," he says. He doesn't touch me and I take note of that thankfully. I hesitate though. He gives me an exasperated look. "Lila, come on." I give him a look. "My parents are still in Israel for their research. And I'm not letting you just leave. Come in."

I remember coming to this house at Warren's eighth birthday party. It was pirate themed and I won the treasure hunt—the treasure was a jar of M&Ms—with Warren himself as my partner. I saw that there were a few boxes with various labels stacked in the hallway.

"Going somewhere?" I ask.

"Yea," Warren says as he pours coffee grounds into the coffee maker. "I got accepted to the university in South Africa. I got an apartment instead of going into the international housing and my roommate needs me there to pay rent right after graduation."  
>I touch the box marked BOOKS and nod. "That's great Warren," I say. "Majoring in History?"<p>

"Yea," he says, smiling at my memory as he pulls two mugs from one of the dark wood cabinets. "With a minor in Classics."

"Fancy."

"I know, I'm a regular gentleman," he says sarcastically. I sit at the breakfast table in the kitchen and finger the soft lines of the lilies dying slightly in a vase in the middle. I can feel Warren's eyes on me. "What happened with Greg last night?"  
>I don't look at him but my jaw accidentally clenches. "Does it matter?"<br>"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you found out your brother was murdered yesterday and he took advantage of your vulnerability."

I look sharply up at Warren. His dark brown eyes are fixated on me with certainty. I press my lips together and lean back in the chair, looking at him with a grim smile. "You'd think a guy as good-looking as him wouldn't need to force himself on girls," I say dryly.

Warren's expression sifts to fury. "I can get the baseball team on him by noon," he promises with conviction.

"It doesn't matter," I say. "He didn't…succeed."  
>Warren frowns. "You got away? He's twice your size."<p>

"I know," I say. I rise and take the mug with a reference to the movie "Office Space" from the counter next to Warren. I pour some of the coffee in and go to the fridge to pour creamer into the black liquid. I drink it so it warms my insides. Warren watches me the whole time. I look at him. "Warren, how long will your parents be in Israel?"

—My leg rounds through the air until it impacts the bag, causing it to swing violently around the room. I dodge the bag as it comes back and punch it several times, imagining it as Greg.

When I break from my sudden fury I look around, breathing heavily as sweat beads down my temples and warms my upper lip. Some of the other gym-goers stare at me. Two older women on the treadmills whisper about "teenage anger". I ignore them and take a paper towel from the side of the room, wiping my face and then some of the sweat I left on the mat below the punching bag.

I shower long, taking the hot water as a kind luxury and am glad I don't have to worry about Warren coming in by accident. I've been staying at his place for the past two weeks, glad to avoid my parents. My dad tried to contact me through the school, but I asked the school not to allow him to any more. They continuously asked me if he beat me, and when I replied "No, he's never touched me" they believed me but heard my undertone implications. I timed it perfectly; I waited until both my parents were gone, no doubt to talk to the police again about Mark's murder, and took some of my clothes and belongings from my room. I broke into my parent's safe and got my birth certificate and Social Security card. I had to go to the bank to do so but I made it so no one could have access to my accounts but me, though I doubted my dad would do anything to my account other than putting in more money.

Word got around school that I left home and was living at Warren's, but I didn't care and nor did Warren. His cardiologist parents were doing research in Jerusalem and wouldn't be back until after Warren moves out. They're meeting me in Johannesburg when he moves into his apartment. They didn't mind though that I was staying there once Warren explained my situation.

I told Warren not to do anything to Greg, but one day when Greg hissed in my ear while passing by at lunch in Russian Warren almost beat on the guy. I calmed him down but after school that day Greg was beat by a few of the baseball guys, though no one could prove it—evidently they were all at Warren's playing Call of Duty.

Glad that working out is a release, I stuffed my clothes into my gym bag and walk to my car in the parking structure. Once at school I ignore the looks from other students of either caution or dislike—because they are friends with Greg—and go my locker in the vacant Main Hall.

I open my locker quickly, grab my government book and pause, staring at the photo I have of Mark and I at John Muir Redwood Park when I was five—just before he left. I have a gap in my teeth and my black hair is in braids. I am grinning, laughing with Mark, as I hang over his shoulder. The trees are tall, vast and never ending around us, auburn and brown and green mixed together with the bright blue sky. I close my eyes at the memory.

Even now I can smell the freshness of northern California, hear the faint sounds of San Francisco in the distance, feel the warm summer breeze and leaves brushing against my feet.

I open my eyes sharply when something bursts inside me. My mind whirls, easily, in a way one's mind whirls on a roller coaster, and I am suddenly in the middle of the redwoods.

I drop my bag and government book with a soft crunch onto the forest ground. I'm off the trail, surrounded by the vast trees taller than skyscrapers. I swallow. I did it again.

_Teleported_, I suppose I could call it. But it doesn't feel like I teleported. I feels like I jumped from one place to the other, broke through the medium science of the earth to do so. I look at the exact spot where I arrived. The air is distorted like heat distorts just above pavement on a hot day. The scar hovers, fading slowly and returning the air to normal where I stand.

I look up experimentally at the treetops. After thinking of what they look like, I pull off my jacket and tug my leather boots up higher around my calves. I crack my neck and stare, determined, at the treetops above.

I concentrate. I jump.

I steady myself, gripping at the branches and leaves for dear life. I exhale finally after holding my breath and grin, laughing at the majesty of what lay before me. I can see the world's curve and San Francisco and the Pacific. Ignoring the cuts on my arms and splinters in my fingers, I stare in wonder.

I look down at the curving ground and jump. I am safely where I had been before, never been airborne and feet firm. I grin and pick up my things. Thinking of school, I jump.

—"You'll write?"  
>"Of course," I promise.<p>

"Long-distance is too expensive," Warren says as we walk from my car to the terminal of LAX. "If you call, you'll spend of fortune."  
>"I know," I say with a hidden smile.<p>

"Is your grandma sure you can stay at her place for a while?" Warren asks again. "You can stay at my house—my parents don't get back until July."  
>"It's fine, Warren," I assure him, though my grandma's been dead for three years. We stop in front of the automatic doors and I hand him his carry-on."Thank you for everything," I say smiling up at him. "I'll visit you when I can."<p>

He frowns. "Tickets are expensive," he says. I grin.

"Don't worry about it." I put my hand on the side of his face, reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. "Have a safe flight," I say. "Africa's waiting."  
>I wave goodbye as he watches me go. I drive to Warren's and put my suitcase on my bed. It is filled with all the clothes I didn't give to Goodwill yesterday and a box has some of my more concrete belongings. I crack my neck and jump.<p>

Grand Central Station is loaded with people, all hurrying in an urgent rush. I put my bag over my head and across my body then walk through the thick crowd down onto the street. Just as busy as the Station, people pushed around and past me. In the middle of the rush I take out my book of New York from my bag. I continue walking as I look at a picture of a building in Greenwich Village. I look up, turn at an obscure corner and jump.

I continue walking in the Village and stuff the book into my bag again. I go into the coffee house I had been looking for and look around.

"Miss Cross."

I look up and see Harter. He grins at me, his long black hair tied in a pony tail and holds out his hand for me to shake. "Glad you could make it. The apartment's all ready."

"Good," I say. He holds out the keys to me. "Thank you for your help."

"No problem," he says. "I'm always available to help an NYU student."

I nod and smile to him. When I leave I go to the apartment. It's small with a loft for a bedroom and a large window overlooking the busy Village below. I drop my bag on the floor and crack my neck.

Thinking of my things in California, my life there that I intend to leave behind, I jump.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3—Sightseeing

The woman is nearly hysterical, tears rolling down her cheeks in rivers and her face red. The corner of her eyebrow is bleeding slightly and she holds her arm up to protect herself against her attacker with the switchblade in his hand.

I jump next to him, grabbing the switchblade then jumping away. I close the blade and stuff it into my back pocket, the mugger's eyes wild with confusion. I jump again next to him and grab a handful of his dirty hair. I jump about ten feet in the air at an angle, letting go of the mugger, jumping away, so he falls hard into the wall, rolling down to the garbage cans. Trash falls everywhere with a great crash as he landed.

I hold the woman's hand as she stares with wide eyes. The mugger is unconscious on the trash, not even moaning anymore. The woman flinches away from me and I suddenly regret that I wore a teal scarf around my nose and mouth, displaying only my eyes.

"Hey!"

I look over my shoulder and see two men dressed for football breaking into a run down the alleyway. I look back at the woman and nod to her. I stand and run down the alley. One of the men reaches the woman, another observes the mugger while the last chases after me. I turn the corner, the man hot on my heels and jump to Casablanca.

The marketplace is as bustling as Grand Central Station in the morning but in a different way. The people are calmer while they sell and when they buy. They seem to have less purpose and more freedom despite the fact Grand Central is in the land of the free and the marketplace is in West Africa. Though it was just past noon in New York, it was the dusky evening in Casablanca.

I pull the scarf that covers my mouth and nose down and rearrange it around my neck. I'm wearing black jeans and brown leather jacket zipped over my body. Because my hair had been up and in the scarf when I saved the woman, I could have been a man. I go to Amine's booth of various trinkets and go behind it while he's bartering with an old man in Arabic.

"Where'd you go off to?" Amine pulls away from his customer to yell to the back to me. He turns back to the man and continues in Arabic. They seem to agree on something and Amine takes the money from the man while handing him the bronze tea kettle.

"New York," I tell him truthfully.

He laughs and shakes his head. "You Americans," he says shaking his head. He is a young, handsome man with curly black hair, smooth copper skin and kind light hazel eyes. He and his wife Ayat have helped me since I saved their baby Azhar from a curious woman wish stars in her eyes. Ayat find me curious but never asks questions and Amine thinks I'm some sort of American spy. I let them think what they want and Ayat scolds her husband if he asks me too many questions.

I open my rucksack and pull off my jacket. I take off my jeans behind the curtain and pull on denim capri pants. I put on tennis shoes and a white tank top. Wrapping the teal scarf around my neck I put the clothes too hot for summer in both New York and Morocco into my rucksack.

Shaking my hair out I come from behind the curtain and smile at Amine. "Healthy business day?"

Amine shrugs. "Better than usual," he says. He learned his English when his mother worked as a maid for a rich Brit with a house on the beach, but he still has a slight accent.

I pick up my rucksack. "Give Azhar a kiss for me."  
>"You're going?"<p>

"I have homework," I say truthfully.

Amine laughs again. "Homework," he says. "They never use that code in the films."

I laugh then and squeeze his arm as I leave. "Later, Amine."

I walk down the marketplace toward the alcove where I can jump without being noticed. I feel strange; like someone is following me. I look over my shoulder—no one that seems out of place.

I shrug and go to the alcove and jump. Lights flicker in the lanterns that light the fishing boats on the water. The little village in Vietnam was quiet, tired and sleeping. I sigh in the humid air and walk out to the water. Ha Long slept while I sat on the beach, my arms rested easily on my knees while I looked out to the quiet, smooth ocean.

I smile when I realize something suddenly, while I look out to Ha Long Bay, Vietnam, after coming from Casablanca, Morocco and spending half the day in New York and the other half in Paris, France to research the Louvre for my art history class.

I smile while I remember that I don't have a passport.

—I tap my pen on my notebook, thinking hard and biting my lip. I blink with sudden inspiration and write rapidly my thoughts. When I finish, I drop my pen and crack my knuckles. I look over what I wrote, suddenly understand what Van Gogh was trying to covey.

"Lila Cross."

I look up suddenly. I hadn't noticed the door to the classroom had opened. There were two men there wearing suits, looking rather official and police-like. I closed my notebook with my eyes not leaving them and stood at my professor's call.

I stuffed my notebook into my bag and rose, walking down the aisle to pass either sleeping, involved or bored fellow students. My expression is blank and hard when I reach the two men and my tiny, bulbous professor.

"Miss Cross," Professor Langdon says looking up at me with his tiny spectacles. "These gentlemen would like a word with you for a moment."

I try to swallow but my throat is thick. I keep my eyes on the two men and nod. "We can go outside, officers," I say. They are surprised that I realize they are policemen.

Once outside I cross turn on my heel and raise my brow to them in the hallway. "Can I help you with something, officers?"

The taller one blinks. "Miss Cross, I am Detective Dan Smith and this is Detective Richard Walsh. We're with NYPD."

"Have I done anything wrong?" I ask sharply.

Walsh blinks rapidly then narrows his eyes. "No," he says. "Actually, we had some news for you."

"In regards to?"

Smith clenches his jaw and pulls a manila folder out from behind his back. "Miss Cross, we believe we've found your brother's killer."

My heart freezes and I hold out my hand sharply. "Let me see."  
>He hands me the folder hesitantly and I opened it. A black and white photo with a scene that looks like it was seen through night vision goggles is glossy in the faint light of the hallway. The man wears a long trench coat, shiny leather boots and a black turtleneck. He is in his late thirties to mid-forties with a sad expression as he puts away a strange weapon into his coat. He looks like he's in a subway tunnel.<p>

"Why didn't you get this before?" I ask sharply as I stare at the man's face.

"We…weren't allowed access to it."

I look up sharply at them.

"Miss Cross, was your brother involved in—"

"No," I say angrily. "My brother was a good man. He was not involved with drugs, arms dealing or any other sort of possibilities that have been running in that little head of yours. I am not saying it because I refuse to speak ill of my dead brother—I am saying this because he wouldn't _ever _become involved in something he didn't fully understand."

I shut the manila folder and nod to them. "I'll keep this, if you don't mind," I say. "Do you know who this man is?"

The detectives look at each other. "We weren't given the photo until yesterday," Smith says. "We think the man is FBI or some equivalent."

"Then why hasn't he been arrested?"

"Because we can't find him," Walsh says. "He's our only suspect so far and the only way to go from there is up."  
>"The case if getting colder, gentlemen," I say acidly. "My brother's been dead for nearly six months now and the longer it takes for you to get <em>permission<em> the harder it will be to catch this son of a bitch. As if you need reminding."

I nod to them as they glare at me. "I'm sure you'll contact me if you have any more information."

When I'm out of their sight I jump to my apartment and punch at my own personal bag for an hour.

—"They do not come home until after three o'clock," the kindly young neighbor of the apartment building says when she sees me knocking, her bright white teeth contrasting against her dark skin. Her accent is crisp and interesting.

"Thank you," I say. "But I have a key."

She smiles and nods before going into her own apartment. Once the door is shut, I smile and jump into the apartment. It's partly tidy, partly messy and I know the tidy part is Warren's doing. I put my bag on the couch and jump to New York, stop at Gray's Papaya and return to Warren's apartment in South Africa with a hot dog.

I jump to my apartment in New York to throw away the trash and lie on Warren's couch with my arms behind my head lazily, my feet drawn up on the arm of the couch. I hear mumbled voices outside not long after, both familiar and accented unfamiliar, and a key in the door.

Warren and his Dutch roommate are laughing at something when the blond man I don't recognize pauses with confusion. Warren shuts the door, back to me.

"You know, I'm liking the décor, Warren, but you don't have enough light," I say. Warren spins on his heel, utterly surprise and happy all at once as he saw me. I shrug at him as if it is the most normal thing for me to be in South Africa on his couch. "Honestly, Warren, you're in South Africa—shed some light through the windows. What are you worried about peeping Toms?"

Warren laughs and puts his keys on the table next to the door. "Peeping Toms are the least of my worries," he says. "I have a problem with Americans breaking and entering."

I shrug and swing my legs so I'm sitting on his couch rather than lying down. "You really should take care of that."

Warren laughs and goes over to me as I stand. He hugs me and I linger on his shoulder, wanting to tell him everything—what the detectives told me yesterday about Mark, but mostly about my newfound ability.

"But seriously—how did you get in?" he asks, bewildered. I shrug and smile at the confused Dutch roommate still at the doorway.

"You pick up a lot when you're living in New York," I lie.

"Yes, that was your scholarship benefactor's intention—to turn you into a criminal."

"My benefactor wanted me to learn," I say patting his chest twice before walking toward his roommate. "And so I have."

My phone rings then before I can introduce myself to the Dutch roommate. I look at the number, frown and answer.

"Hello?"  
>"Lila? Lila?" Amine's voice sounds frantic.<p>

"Amine, what's the matter?"

"They—they came to ask questions about you," he cries. "They—they wanted to know how we knew you and—and where you were from and when you come over and—"

"Who, Amine?" I say turning my back to Warren and pressing my palm to my open ear to hear better through the scratchy reception.

"I didn't give them your phone number," he says, his voice shaking now. "I—I told them I didn't know your last name, but I was going to when they threatened—" Amine cuts off, his voice shaking and sobs escaping his lips. "I said I would tell them, but they wanted to make—make an _impression_ they said. They took them, Lila—they took my daughter and my Ayat. They took them—" He continues in sobs.

"I'll be right there."  
>I hang up and grab my bag from the couch frantically. My heart beating hard against my chest I pull out the switch blade I stole from the mugger and shoved it into my back pocket.<p>

"Lila, what the hell's going on?" Warren says, face distorted.

I take Warren's shoulders and look at him seriously. "Stay at a friend's house tonight—stay close to the American embassy and do not tell your university representative where you are."

"What is going on?" Warren demands angrily, his face turning red from his fury of not knowing.

I kiss his cheek quickly and go around him and his roommate to leave. He goes after me, grabbing my arm but I twist away and around the corner so I can jump without him seeing.

I land behind the curtain in the back of Amine's booth. It's quiet despite the market outside, grimly so.

"Amine," I say sharply, my hand wrapped around the switchblade in my back pocket, my bag secure across my body and my heart beating hard against my chest. "_Amine_."

I let out a scream and shudder as my bones shake inside me. I fall backward and crawl away from the awful electricity. When I do I see Amine's blank hazel eyes next to me, blood running hot from his mouth and stomach. I shudder, my body jerking from the remaining electricity. I try to jump and I feel myself shutter mid-jump like a camera. When I realize that I'm not in my Greenwich apartment, I turn to look up at my attacker.

A man and a woman dressed very wrong for Casablanca stand over me, one with a familiar rod-like weapon where a faint buzzing could be heard. I kick backward away from them as the woman jerks for me, her own weapon out from her tan trench coat.

I moan as I sweep my leg across the floor, knocking the woman off her feet. I kick myself backward and find my hand wrapped around the handle of the electric baton. I strike my heel down onto the inside of the man's knee, knocking him to his knees and reach up to bang my head hard into his. Ignoring the pain in my skull I take the baton from the man as he falls unconscious and move it to electrocute the woman.

She seizes but it seems as though the electrocution affected her less than it did me. She glares at me as she pushes my baton away and presses the end of hers to my chest. I scream as I shake from the electricity grinding my bones. I try to jump and shutter instead. I feel hot tears rolling down my face as she stands over me, pressing the end of the baton on my chest. As I shake, I press my left cheek onto the floor. I see the switchblade I stole and reach my hand out quickly. I stab the blade into the baton.

It seems to sizzle as it the blade breaks into the metallic crunch of the broken weapon. Still, the electricity continues in both me and my attacker in the trench coat. I try to jump again, shuttering instead, and my eyes roll when I begin to give up.

I blink the tears away from my blurry eyes when I see something appear behind the woman. The figure bashes an arm against the woman's head, knocking her over and away from me.

I gasp and jerk wildly with the remaining electricity when I feel a gloved hand wrap around both my arms. I jerk slightly when I'm picked up and cradled into the arms of my savior. My head falls back from tiredness and tears run down my forehead and into my hair. I feel my body jump, but it isn't my doing.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4—Company

My body feels heavy and for a moment I don't think I can pick myself up again. But I open my eyes and the color returns to my sight once the gray-blue spots fade. I'm in some sort of dank cave with stalactites dripping without an echo. I sit up abruptly and grip at the blanket underneath me. I'm on a well-used cot in the middle of the cave. Next to me is an old nightstand with a lantern, the firelight in the candle flickering on the wick.

A desk covered with papers, books of all kinds and various trinkets from other countries is across the cave and next to it is a long, mirror-like pool of freshwater that seems very deep. On two large cork boards are pictures of various places around the world—London, New York, Hong Kong, Port-au-Prince, Berlin, Paris, Marseilles, Ho Chi Minh City, Chicago, LA, Dubai, Cape Town, Rio de Janeiro and various villages that I recognize in various other obscure countries. More than a few I _don't_ recognize.

"Are you cold?"

I start at the surprise of the voice and press my back against the wrought iron headboard. I wince and my hand goes to my head from a sharp pain I didn't notice before. My back feels bruised and my head has a bandage on the spot where I knocked it against the male attacker. My skin feels hot, bothered and tickly.

The man before me has dark brown hair with reddish undertones, tousled and grown just behind his ears. His eyes are hawk-like and sharp despite the black color. He has a heavily muscled upper body with lean muscles underneath the white t-shirt he wears. His skin is tanned from the sunlight and his jaw is as defined as his muscles.

I vaguely remember him knocking the woman out, scooping me off the floor and jumping.

I bite my cheeks, appraising him with false confidence. "Where are we?"

"Several kilometers from San Juan."

"Puerto Rico," I confirm. I exhale and rub my sore neck. I nod to the small pool. "Bioluminescent water," I say. He kicks a rock into the pool and it causes the water to glow blue, bright and beautiful. "We're in Fajardo, really," I correct. I shrug at his hard, hawk-like expression. "I have a jump site near Vieques."

He raises his brow. "How many jump sites do you have?"

I ignore his question and stand unsteadily. He moves to help but I wave him away and steady myself on the headboard. I inhale sharply and exhale slowly.

I look at him critically. "Let me guess," I say assessing his accent. "Italy. Tuscany."

A small, impish smile creeps up on his thick lips. "You've been around."

"Apparently so have you." I walk over to his wall of jump sites. All the pictures are amateur. "Why do you take pictures of them?"

When he doesn't answer right away I look at him. He's frowning. "You don't?"

I shake my head. "Why would you need to?" I say. I shrug. "It's easier to glance at a picture on the internet or a book and just jump. From there it's all memory."

He's frowning deeply at me. I laugh and cross my tender arms across my chest. "Do you always look so worried?"

"What's your name?" he asks me.

I bite my lip, thinking of the attack in Casablanca. I remember suddenly Amine's blank, dead eyes and the blood gushing fresh from his mouth. I wonder where his wife and baby are, hating the people intruding Amine's booth.

"Who were the people at Amine's?" I ask with acid in my tone.

His frown deepens. "You're much newer than I thought you were," he says. "How long have you been jumping?"

I bite my cheeks. "Nearly six months," I say rather quietly.

He shakes his head, laughing slightly. "That's impossible," he says. "You jump better than me and I've been doing this since I was five."

"Five?" I blink rapidly and laugh. "Practice makes perfect, I guess."

I walk closer to him then. "Now tell me—who killed Amine?"

"Paladins," he answers, eyeing me. "They're committed to killing us."

"Us?"  
>"Jumpers." He laughs slightly, hawk eyes still dark. "You didn't think you were the only one, did you?"<p>

"Up until five minutes ago, I did." I narrow my eyes at him then. "Why do they want to kill us?"

"They have it in their head that only God should be ever where at once."

I laugh at that dryly. "Good thing I don't believe in God then. How did they find me?"

"They must have been on your trail. You must have been jumping too much in too short of a time."

I swallow. "Do they know who I am?"

"Most likely." He eyes me carefully. "You'd best warn your family. Other jumpers…have not been so lucky to have the warning."

I look at his dark eyes and pick up my bag from next to the cot. I look up at him. "How did you find me?"

"I heard you screaming," he says darkly. "And I saw your jump scar when I looked into the booth. I was taking pictures of a new jump site."

"Casablanca isn't safe from pandas apparently."

"Paladins."

"Whatever." I clench my jaw, thinking of Hermosa where my dad still lives, waiting for my mom to be released from the psychiatric hospital. "Lila."

He nods. "You can call me Cal."

I smile and tilt my head to the side. "Since you were five, huh?" and I jump.

—I knock for the fourth time on the door, knowing I can simply jump inside and not wanting to need to resort to that.

"Come on," Cal says behind me after having followed me through my jump scar. "We can—"

"Hush." I knock again. No answer. I sigh angrily and grip my hand around Cal's wrist. We jump past the door and into the hallway inside. I let go of him and begin walking into the living room. The phone starts to ring.

"Dad?" I call. "Dad are you here—"

I stop abruptly at the emptiness. The TV is on to some obscure channel.

"He's just not home," Cal says, not trying to comfort me but rather looking at how normal the house seemed.

The phone goes to voicemail. A crinkly voice comes on the other end. "Hello, Mr. James Cross. My name is Agent Brian Tanner with the FBI. I just wanted to ask you a few questions about your daughter-" A car pulls into the driveway. It's my dad's Volvo. "-She's not in any trouble, we merely would like to know more about the correspondence she had with your son before his death. Call me back at-"

I jump.

—Cal arrives through my jump scar seconds after I get to my apartment in the Village. I jump around my apartment, shoving various important things into my duffel. I pull my safe from underneath my bed, jump downstairs to the dining room table and shove it into the duffel while jumping to my room to put more clothes into the bag.

"Did you get this apartment legitimately?" Cal asks me.

"What?" I say too sharply.

"Did you steal the money you used to pay for this apartment?"

I glare up at him when I jump back downstairs. "No, of course not," I say. "I had money saved from working since I was fifteen and my grandmother's inheritance."

"You go to college?"

"NYU," I say impatiently glaring at him. "I won an essay contest and got a scholarship for my grandmother being an immigrant—why?"

"Because they can convict you and have reason to seize you on the grounds of illegal acts," he says calmly. "Since you're using your real identity they can't take you legally."

"And if they take me anyway?" I bark.

"Then you jump."

"They have those damned—lightning—things!" I struggle to speak. "I can't jump when they do that."

Cal opens his mouth to respond when someone knocks on the door. He jumps and grabs my shoulders. "Hide," he hisses.

I jump to the closet that holds my washer and dryer. I've never opened the doors and I peer through the slats, sitting on the top of the dryer.

Cal opens the door, straightening his shirt. "Can I help you?" he says pleasantly in his cool Italian accent.

A uniformed police officer and an unfamiliar, official looking man stand at the door. The man in the suit flips out a badge that I can see declares him as FBI. I wonder if he's Agent Tanner from the voicemail.

"We're looking for Lila Cross," he says sternly with thick, Neanderthal-like eyebrows. "She lives here, doesn't she?"  
>"Yes," Cal says with a tone of surprise on his face. "She's in South Africa for the week, though, visiting a friend. I'm taking care of her plants and her cat."<br>My stomach clenches and I stare with wide eyes at Cal. _How does he know that?_

"Her cat?" The FBI agent peers over Cal's shoulder into my apartment, looking for a litter box, no doubt.

"He's in the loft," Cal says. He gestures them forward. "Come in—come in."

They do and Cal walks up the stairs, out of sight of both me and the suspicious officials. I hear a soft rush of air and then another, indicating that Cal jumped. A cat's purr tells me what he brought back.

Cal walks steadily down the stairs with a black and white cat purring at his stroke behind the ear. "He's lazy," Cal says. "But worth taking care of."

Cal puts the cat on the ground and it explores the area curiously. "Does this have to do with Lila's brother?"

My stomach tightens more at Cal's words. _How the _hell _does he know all this?_

"…No," the FBI agent says slowly.

"Then why do you need her?"

The agent swallows. "I'm afraid that's classified."

Cal laughs. "Americans. Always so grim. In any case, she'll be in South Africa for the next week and unless you're intent on talking to her immediately I'm afraid I can be of no more help."

"How long has she been there?"

"She left two days ago," he says frowning. "Has she done something wrong?"

"We found no records of her flying anywhere," he says angrily. "She doesn't even have a passport."

Cal laughs. "I beg to differ, my friend," he says. "You should check your records again—she left from John F. Kennedy Airport and she had her passport in her hand as she left."

The agent and officer seem unconvinced though Cal's expression is difficult not to believe. "I trust you'll find Lila has nothing to hide," he lies smoothly.

The men are ushered out gently. "Thank you for your time," the FBI agent ends up saying. Cal's good. Real good.

When he shuts the door I jump out of the closet and to my bedside table in my loft. Cal has a silver phone out and is speaking into it rapidly in English. I quickly wrap my right hand with tape and jump down the loft.

I push Cal so his back is pressed against the wall, my forearm pressing hard against his throat. "Who the hell are you?" I bark angrily between my teeth. "How the hell do you know so much about me?"

Cal's face is calm and he still has the phone held up to his ear. "Yes, Lila Cross," he says calmly into the phone. "Cross with a C. Lila is L-I-L-A. Got it?...Okay. Thank you, David."

He hangs up the phone and I jump us to Ha Long. I punch him and he splashes hard into the water of Ha Long Bay. He jumps, dripping wet behind me and wraps his arms around my neck. I grab his heavily muscled arm as he picks me up backward off the shore. I choke out and jump us to the Alps. The cold air whips my hair around as I toss him mid-jump into a frosty tree.

I breathe heavily and jump in front of him. I round my leg and kick him in the face. Blood marks the perfect snow by the tree when he falls to his side. I grasp his neck and press him against the tree.

"Who the hell are you?" I demand through my teeth.

He laughs as blood drips down his right eyebrow. "You're good," he says. "_Monte_ _Bianco_ is a good place to have a jump site."

"I saw a picture once," I say. I thrust his head into the tree trunk once more. "Who are you?"

"I've told you—my name is Cal," he says. "I am a jumper—like you."

"How do you know so much about me?" I demand. "Why did you follow me to California without hesitation?"

"Because I wanted to help you," he says. He jumps behind me and I turn on my heel to face him, but he holds his hands out innocently. "I was a friend of your brother's."

I glare at him. "I don't believe you."

"Mark showed me a picture of you from last year," he says. "He spoke of you often."

I blink rapidly. "Mark…Mark wasn't a jumper."

"Yes he was."

The blow made my stomach ache. Flurries of snow dash in front of my face and I suddenly feel the cold at the foothills of Mont Blanc. I rub my bare arms and shake my head.

I stop. I look to give him an angry look. "How did you know I was in South Africa?"

"Because I've been following you."

I jump in front of him again but he jumps back ten feet. "I couldn't find you in California after Mark's death," he explains. "I found out you were in New York and when I saw you with those police officers I couldn't approach you. Then I saw you jump. From there I followed your jump scars."

Furious, I groan, my voice echoing off the mountains. I shake my head without purpose. "Paladins killed Mark." It was a statement.

Cal swallows. "Yes."

My hand goes to my throat as it tightens, threatening to cry. I shake it away and sigh. "That call you made," I say in a hollow voice.

"A good friend of mine," he says. "David Rice. He has connections with the airlines. He helps with hijackings occasionally."

I press my lips together, thinking about that. "Any connections with the US military?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5—Salute

I check on my dad every other day or so, just to be sure he isn't being harassed for crimes I did not commit or having contact with any paladins. If anything, he merely looks sad. He has good reason; his son who had been missing has turned up murdered, his wife is in a psychiatric hospital and his daughter is away at college, estranged from her family in every way possible.

I answer my phone—knowing the GPS has been turned off so I can't be traced—at the number I was told would call.

"Hello?"

"Is this Lila Cross?"

"Yes," I say in response to the uncertain but intelligent tenor voice on the other end. "David Rice?"

"I know a few people in the NSA," David Rice responds reluctantly at the question that had been asked of him previously. "But they won't be much help. They won't know too much about paladins."

I already like this David guy. He's straight and to the point, no messing around. Though he doesn't seem to want to talk about this. "What about FBI? CIA? The Secret Service?"

"Nope. I'm not sure even the president knows. Paladins are ancient; they're funded by family money and concerned benefactors. They don't care about any nation's security—they only care about ridding the world of our genetic abominations."

"Then how do they work so well without being noticed?"

"Sweeps," David responds. "That's what we call them, anyway. Bribed officials in various parts of the government to pull strings so random killings go unnoticed. Coroners, policemen, detectives, democrats, republicans—even firefighters and scientists, anyone and everyone it takes."

I scowl. "Coroners?"

"To fake cause of death. Too many deaths by electrocution coming up around the world would get Interpol involved."

I press my lips together and look at Cal sleeping loudly, limps splayed across my couch. The sun is beginning to break over the horizon, blinding me and making things more clear all at once. "Thanks," I say. "If you need anything from me, call me."

David hesitates on the other end. "All right," he says. "But don't involve me in this—I've got a wife to worry about. Give Cal my regards."

I hang up and stick my phone in my back pocket. I jump to South Africa on the side of Warren's building. I go to his apartment and knock once when the door opens suddenly. Warren frowns.

"Lila!" he cries. "Where the hell did you go? You've had me worried sick!"

"I'm fine," I say. "I have a friend here and he needed my help." I sigh. "I'm sorry I kept you worrying. Someone broke into his house and needed help."

"Why would he ask for your help?" Warren says frowning as I walk into his apartment where his roommate I don't know the name of is lounging on the couch.

"I've changed my major," I tell him. "Criminology."

Warren opens his mouth to ask why, closes it and sighs deeply. "Lila, you can't—"

"Don't lecture me on _grieving,_ Warren," I snap. "I've had enough of that." Warren stares at me. I go by the door and press the bug into the doorframe, the bug that Cal got for me from God knows where. "Keep safe, Warren," I say. "And be…be careful."

"Be careful?" I turn and Warren is frowning. "Lila, what's going on?"

I smile sadly at him. "Don't listen to what they say about me," I say. "You're better than that."

I turn around the corner and jump to the airport.

—Once seated in coach, I examine my ticket more thoroughly. David Rice sent it via bike messenger yesterday. I didn't ask questions on who this Rice character was and just accepted the ticket, barely looking at it until now. It gave my real name, everything correct, and declared the ticket round trip. _I have to admit, _I think,_ he's good. _

I am grateful that I have the window seat and watch the brightness of the sun high in the sky, lovely and white far above the horizon. When the captain's voice goes on the loudspeaker to announce our liftoff, I look around, confused.

There aren't many people on the plane. In coach, besides me, a family of three, six strangers scattered down the rows and a father with his sleeping baby. The curtain flaps in waves so I can see into first class which has four people in it from what I can see. I turn away to the sky unfolding before me, clouds breaking as floating water while we push through. The clouds below us cast shadows onto the land in shapes distinctly different from their true forms. Shadows are deceiving that way.

I start when a great bang and yell come from behind me and down the aisle to first class. A woman screams, the man clutches to his infant, the mother in the family of three puts her arm in front of her ten year old son and the four sitting strangers gasp, start as I did. One stands with a gun at the two men in the back.

"Air Marshal!" he yells. "Get ba-"

A bullet goes through his chest and he falls dead to the floor. One of the two strangers blows playfully at the end of his gun like a cowboy would.

Two of the strangers are standing now—one Middle Eastern, the other so pale he was almost albino. They are carrying guns and are pointing the weapons at the innocent passengers. The Albino Man turns over his shoulder toward the back where the stewardesses had vanished behind the curtain.

"Are you done in there, Mal?" he calls with a thick German accent.

"You say that like I was taking too long," says a white South African stewardess coming from behind the curtain. She had a smear of blood on her cotton sleeve and I see behind the curtain that all the stewardesses are knocked out, three of them bleeding.

Mal the hijacking stewardess clicks another cartridge in her gun and points it around with her accomplices. "No one move," she warns the passengers. Her grey eyes suddenly avert to me. "Sit _down_," she hisses at me.

I suddenly realize that I'm standing, my eyes fixed on the scene. My hand is gripped around the back of my seat and I swear I can feel the rush of the sky underneath the plane. I look over my shoulder and see two men from first class are holding those in the more expensive part of the plane at gunpoint as well. The pilot is visible as well with the door flapping open as the plane turns—a gun is at his head, just at his brainstem.

_This was well-planned_, I think.

"Are you deaf?" the stewardess hijacker called Mal cries at me.

"Maybe you need to put the _Please fasten your seatbelts_ sign, Mal," the Middle Eastern guy with the American accent chuckles. The array of nationalities throws me.

"Shut it, Joseph!" Mal barks at the American Middle Eastern man. She takes long strides down the aisle with long legs and presses the cold gun to my temple. "I'll tell you again—_sit down._"

I look up at the pale German. "So the woman runs the show here?" I say. "How refreshing. My sex is moving up in the world."

A cold, hard gun smashes against the side of my skull. I tumble over the seat and into the aisle, the ten year old boy and his mother shrieking, the baby crying now.

"What's going on in there?" a man with Russian—or is it Ukrainian?—accent calls.

I push myself up on my hands and knees, blood pouring hot down the side of my head. It drops in perfect circles on the thin carpet of the plane. My head feels drowsy, but I blink back to sobriety and stand sharply.

Now all three of the hijackers in coach point their guns at me.

"Sit down, woman," the German man says sternly but not unkindly. "You'll die before you can do anything."

I look at him now, eyes dark. "I beg to differ," I darkly.

Then Mal jumps in front of me, suddenly so her jump scar hovers before my eyes and punches my face. Everything turns black before I have the chance to jump.

—My head feels like an elephant is sitting on it and my jaw aches like I have been using nails as chewing gum.

I open my eyes nonetheless and blink some crusty blood away with a soft crackle on my eyelids. Blue and black spots flutter in front of my eyes like soft polka dots and then the light above my seat comes into view.

"…do you want us anyway?" the mother's voice pleas. The voices come from first class now, though the mother started out in coach.

"To make a statement," Mal's voice says sternly.

"Are you aliens?" a male voice asks.

Some of the hijackers chuckle. The soft murmur of someone jumping followed by faint cries of surprise. "Even if we are, it doesn't matter," a deep voice with the Russian accent says. "Dead men cannot tell tales of aliens."

Some of the hijackers chuckle again. "Enough," the German man says roughly to the Russian. "You're scaring the boy."

"The fears of dead boys don't matter to the world," the Russian man says softly but I hear him jump farther down the hall anyway.

I realize that all the people from first class were pushed with the coach passengers, to the first rows in first class so they could all be watched at once. I remain in coach, my head bleeding and my heart beating fast against my chest as I am laid back in the chair. I wonder if they think I'm dead.

"How far are we, Mo?" Mal's voice calls, her crisp South African accent pleasing to the ear with cruel undertones.

"We reach American waters in a half hour, at the least," calls an American voice whose gun was still poised at the pilot's head.

I look at the curtain that blocks most of the view of the hostages and the hijackers. Through the slit of the blue curtain I see the little ten year old boy. He has a mop of blond hair and huge brown eyes that are staring right at me.

I bring my finger slowly to my lips to caution him to stay quiet. He nods slowly.

"What are you nodding at, boy?" the Russian's voice barks angrily.

I jump.

The Russian comes into coach with the pale German behind him. He is burly with a crew cut of black hair, harsh, cold pale eyes and thick bands for lips that could put Steven Tyler to shame.

"Mikal, I just looked back at her two minutes ago," the German promises. "She was here—I swear—"

"Well she's not here now, is she Kris?" Mikal shouts angrily. He points his gun to the back. "Find her. She's probably hiding in the toilet."

The German called Kris stalks with his gun in hand down the aisle toward the lavatory where the innocent stewardesses are still unconscious. The Russian looks around sniffing as if he could smell me.

I cock my head to the side, examining the back of the Russian's large skull. The big lug didn't think to look behind him when searching for me.

"Mikal, she's not—" Kris turns from the lavatory, eyes wide. "Mikal—look—"

Mikal turns sharply to find me but I jump in the lavatory right in front of Kris. I kick his stomach as he lets loose a bullet. It hits the door to the lavatory and I grip his gun while he falls to the floor, head knocking loosely against the wall and slinking down to where the stewardess' lie.

I jump again as Mikal shoots at where I had been standing. I watch as Mikal turns in circles frantically trying to find me. I release the cartridge to the gun and let it fall to the floor with a soft crash.

Mikal turns again and shoots where I had stood before. I'm behind him again with his gun in my hand.

"The last Russian man I knew tried to rape me," I say darkly as I twirl the emptied gun on my thumb. I cock one eyebrow up. "Forgive me if I don't show you any kindness. Prejudices, you see, linger long."

He jumps then but not before I do. I knee the man who had been holding the gun to the pilot's head in the gut, pushing him into the wall as I jump him to the back of the plane with the unconscious stewardesses and Kris.

I jump back to the pilot and co-pilot as the other hijackers run to me and I lock the door. I hope that no one other than the unconscious man claimed the cockpit as a jump site. I bring my knuckle to my brow to the pilot. "Gentlemen," I say.

I jump again behind the American man and whistle. He turns on his heel and shoots at where I had been. I return within moments behind him, pressing the power cables into his back so he jolts from the electricity. I jump him to the back of the plane while I tie the cables, jump to Amine's booth in Casablanca. When I jump back to the plane the remaining four hijackers come at me—Mikal first.

He jumps before me, grabbing my shoulders hard. He jumps us to some rainforest that seems South American. I bang my bleeding head against his large one, causing his pale eyes to roll and I jump us twenty feet away from the cliffs of Dover. He grips me shoulders as we fall and before we can crash into the rocky headlands, I grab his thick wrists, my foot on his back.

I jump us in the doorway to Scotland Yard. I kick his back so he falls face-first on the floor filled with British police officers. I make a face and point at him.

"_He tried to rape me_!" I wail in a British accent.

As some of the bobbies descend on the raging Russian, too conservative to jump in a crowd of people, I retreat from the sympathetic officers, take a step to the side, and jump back to the plane.

The baby is still crying when I return to the plane and the remaining two hijackers are wary. Then the one called Joseph steps through Mikal and my jump scar, gun aloft. I smile at that and jump next to Mal, cocking my head to their fearless South African leader.

"Looking for me?" I say.

She jumps as she screams in ten brief shudders until she crashes into me. We jump entangled, fighting angrily down the halls of the plane. Her gun flies from her hand and I jump us back to first class, my knees on either side of her waist.

I punch her hard in the face, causing her lip to burst and her anger to rise.

"Why did you do this?" I demand angrily. They were of a common cause, that much was certain, but they were all of different nationalities with no patriotic antics.

She spits bloody spittle at me, dotting my shirt. "_Go to hell!"_ she screams. "You are a disgrace to your own kind!"

"You mean Americans? Well a lot of people will argue with that."  
>"No!" she screams, too weak to jump with my weight on her. "We were going to crash the plane into the paladins! They're all together—electing a new commander in Pittsburg! We could have killed them all in a single stroke and you <em>ruined it!"<em>

I lean back at her words, frowning. Anger rises in me then. "And that justifies killing innocent people?" I punch her, making the boy shriek again and a wicked crunch to go through Mal's bleeding nose. "_That justifies murder!"_

"They've murdered us for centuries!" she barks back tears rolling down her face. "They have killed my little boy! My little Daniel…" She starts to sob and my heart feels heavy.

I look at the faces of those I've saved today. Eyes large, confused, guarded and uncertain.

I exhale smoothly. Standing while the broken woman sobs I shake my head. "Paladins killed my brother," I say darkly to her. She looks at me through red eyes. "But these people didn't."

I take her arm and jump her to the back where the others lie unconscious. It isn't until I bind her hands tightly to a cabinet, her shuttering as she tries to jump from the immovable object, do I jump to my seat. I look at the window serenely, looking at the Earth's curve with ocean spanning endlessly. At the top of the world, there are no certain horizons.

Then I calmly rest my head on the pillow as if I had been asleep this entire time.


End file.
